Irked, I reached into my golf bag, pulled out the doll and told Mike that his winning days were done. I wrenched the doll's shoulders.
"That's to make you come over the top," I said.
Mike was mystified, so I explained what I'd been up to, watching as the color drained from his face.
"Voodoo, schmoodoo," he said, trying to gather himself. But his voice lacked conviction, and his cocky smile was replaced by the quivering lips of a man who'd just eaten a bad oyster.
Unsettled, Mike stepped up to the tee and snap-hooked one into the trees. Then I split the fairway with a mammoth drive.
Watching my ball fly, I felt a surge of confidence, what the priestesses call "mojo" and Tiger calls his "A-game." My rival, I realized, would soon be reeling. True mojo is too much for any man.
On the second hole, Mike, in a fit of overcompensation, sliced his tee ball out of bounds. I recorded a ho-hum par. And so on. By the time we made the turn, the match stood four holes in my favor. Yet much to my surprise, my big lead hadn't filled me with satisfaction.
As my once-bullish buddy slouched toward the 10th tee, what I felt was pity. And a tinge of remorse. Priestess Miriam had given me the power, and told me to use it for good, not evil. Voodoo was intended to enhance my own play, not to drag my opponent down.
I stopped Mike in his backswing and told him I was sorry. He was Cindy Loo Who, and I was the regretful Grinch on Christmas morning.
"I release you from my clutches," I said, stashing the voodoo doll in my golf bag. Mike smiled, looking relieved. Then he birdied three of the next five holes. I was 3 over par, a man still clinging to a modicum of mojo, as we made our way to the 18th tee. But Mike had trimmed my lead to one.
Mike's tee shot found the fairway. Mine found the woods. I dashed into the trees, hacking at the branches like Pizarro on the plunder. But the quest was hopeless. The ball was gone.
On my lonely march back to the tee, I realized that the priestess had misled me: In golf, you have to concentrate for more than 17 holes. I felt my shoulders sagging and my mojo slipping. But at that moment, I spotted something white and shiny in the rough. I bent to pick it up, and the logo smiled at me like a sign from the spirits: a brand new Nike Mojo ball. I rubbed my eyes, convinced I was daydreaming, but the psychedelic lettering still read the same. Playing with my fresh find, I split the fairway, stuffed a wedge to a foot and salvaged bogey to halve the hole.
Mike cracked open his cobwebbed wallet and coughed up $20. I grinned and stuffed the bill inside my bag.
Months have passed. Hurricane Katrina has come and gone. But as New Orleans limps on, soaked and staggered, my doll now lounges high and dry on a bookshelf in my office. After dusting Mike, I promised myself that I would never again draw on the dark powers. As much fun as it is to torture an opponent, golf, I decided, is a game that we play against ourselves.
At least that was my thinking until today, when I got a call from Mike. He was in town, had sorted out his swing and was back to talking smack, announcing his intentions to crush me on the course the next day. Dusk was falling and long-fingered shadows crept across my office floor. An evil grin ticked the corners of my lips, and I glanced up at the doll and checked if its mouth was capable of swallowing.
"You're on," I said to Mike. On the way home I stopped at the drug store and picked up some Metamucil. I knew there were no bathrooms on the course, but I can't say I was going to feel bad for Mike. Just to be safe, I took my doll out for some greasy Mexican food.
"That's to make you come over the top," I said.
Mike was mystified, so I explained what I'd been up to, watching as the color drained from his face.
"Voodoo, schmoodoo," he said, trying to gather himself. But his voice lacked conviction, and his cocky smile was replaced by the quivering lips of a man who'd just eaten a bad oyster.
Unsettled, Mike stepped up to the tee and snap-hooked one into the trees. Then I split the fairway with a mammoth drive.
Watching my ball fly, I felt a surge of confidence, what the priestesses call "mojo" and Tiger calls his "A-game." My rival, I realized, would soon be reeling. True mojo is too much for any man.
On the second hole, Mike, in a fit of overcompensation, sliced his tee ball out of bounds. I recorded a ho-hum par. And so on. By the time we made the turn, the match stood four holes in my favor. Yet much to my surprise, my big lead hadn't filled me with satisfaction.
As my once-bullish buddy slouched toward the 10th tee, what I felt was pity. And a tinge of remorse. Priestess Miriam had given me the power, and told me to use it for good, not evil. Voodoo was intended to enhance my own play, not to drag my opponent down.
I stopped Mike in his backswing and told him I was sorry. He was Cindy Loo Who, and I was the regretful Grinch on Christmas morning.
"I release you from my clutches," I said, stashing the voodoo doll in my golf bag. Mike smiled, looking relieved. Then he birdied three of the next five holes. I was 3 over par, a man still clinging to a modicum of mojo, as we made our way to the 18th tee. But Mike had trimmed my lead to one.
Mike's tee shot found the fairway. Mine found the woods. I dashed into the trees, hacking at the branches like Pizarro on the plunder. But the quest was hopeless. The ball was gone.
On my lonely march back to the tee, I realized that the priestess had misled me: In golf, you have to concentrate for more than 17 holes. I felt my shoulders sagging and my mojo slipping. But at that moment, I spotted something white and shiny in the rough. I bent to pick it up, and the logo smiled at me like a sign from the spirits: a brand new Nike Mojo ball. I rubbed my eyes, convinced I was daydreaming, but the psychedelic lettering still read the same. Playing with my fresh find, I split the fairway, stuffed a wedge to a foot and salvaged bogey to halve the hole.
Mike cracked open his cobwebbed wallet and coughed up $20. I grinned and stuffed the bill inside my bag.
Months have passed. Hurricane Katrina has come and gone. But as New Orleans limps on, soaked and staggered, my doll now lounges high and dry on a bookshelf in my office. After dusting Mike, I promised myself that I would never again draw on the dark powers. As much fun as it is to torture an opponent, golf, I decided, is a game that we play against ourselves.
At least that was my thinking until today, when I got a call from Mike. He was in town, had sorted out his swing and was back to talking smack, announcing his intentions to crush me on the course the next day. Dusk was falling and long-fingered shadows crept across my office floor. An evil grin ticked the corners of my lips, and I glanced up at the doll and checked if its mouth was capable of swallowing.
"You're on," I said to Mike. On the way home I stopped at the drug store and picked up some Metamucil. I knew there were no bathrooms on the course, but I can't say I was going to feel bad for Mike. Just to be safe, I took my doll out for some greasy Mexican food.
